The Scarlet Rose
by Averne
Summary: He used her in his wholly selfish attempt to save himself. Yet in the end, she saved him still. A crossover of POTO and Beauty and the Beast. Updated.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** All characters belonging to _The Phantom of the Opera_ are copyright Gaston Leroux. The storyline of _Beauty and the Beast_ belongs to a score of different authors, and I have mixed ideas from quite a few. A few other details have been borrowed from C.S. Lewis' _Till We Have Faces_. I have merely compiled the stories and characters together in a fan work to combine some of my favorite stories. Charlotte-Christine is partially my own creation, but her characterization belongs largely to Gaston Leroux and Susan Kay.

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**Prologue**

Charlotte-Christine; four syllables which do not fall lightly from my tongue. She was a child - a poor, lost, innocent, insecure and desperate child - and I preyed upon her in hopes of breaking the cruel, rusting bonds of enchantment. I was a deathly beast then, both in spirit and in appearance. She was like a cherub, sent from on high. She brought warmth and light into my cold and shadowed world. Her love personified me. Her kiss was my sanity, my salvation, and my redemption. But like Psyche's mortal suitors, I was destined not to have her for my own.

All good fairytales begin with, "Once upon a time." This story, however, is no fairytale. It is a tale of horror, cruelty, possession, desire, deception, fear, and terror and above all else, a love of the most exquisite kind. Exquisite love, exquisite pain - a beautiful disaster. She was loved by another, and I could not deny her the love to which she so desperately floundered to cling. I had already robbed her of so much more in my wholly selfish attempt to save myself. Yet in the end, she saved me still.

My story begins over two centuries ago. I was the young and handsome prince of a prosperous kingdom. The populace hailed me as a genius, a prodigy, and rightly so; I was inhumanly gifted in music, magic, thought and language, as well as art and architecture. I was naturally commanding and possessed an inherent magnetism which attracted others to me instantly and later, combined with my seductive voice, caused my will to become law. I was denied nothing in my childhood and was known (and feared!) for my sudden, violent eruption of tantrums. The servants and attendants nervously jested that I took after my father, who was an effective but harsh ruler.

I idolized my father as a child, which is why his sudden death irrevocably altered me. I festered in bitterness over the loss of my idol, and vowed that I would never love another human soul to spare myself the bitter pain of another inevitable separation. I barricaded my heart; I encased it in a coffin and sealed it in a stone cold tomb deep within the catacombs of my numbed emotion. I would never feel again.

The crown passed to me; my mother was too sick with grief over the dual loss of her beloved husband and son to rule in her husband's stead, as was the custom. I reigned as a tyrant, having no more feeling for the human race. I was high above the peasant imbeciles anyway; no man possessed a mind that compared with my own. I was endowed with the mind of the gods, and as such felt that I _was_ a god among men. I bestowed mercy upon no one. In my regime, I became known as the Angel of Doom.

It was at the end of the first year of my reign when my life - or, life as I knew it - was stripped away from me. Drunk on my genius and absolute power, I felt that I was invincible until one evening when a haggard old woman hobbled through my palace's iron gates. How I curse my impetuous youth! She was a weary foreigner, she had said, in need of shelter. Insulted that she should mistake my sprawling, magnificent, architectural wonder of a palace as an over-run inn, I set my guards upon her to force her away. It was then that she revealed herself as the enchantress that she was. I uncharacteristically pleaded for forgiveness - for who wants to get on the bad side of an enchantress? - but she would hear none of it.

"Because you have shown no mercy to your people," she told me, "I shall grant no mercy to you. You shall pay for your crimes against the kingdom! Your subjects daily cry out in misery, yet you turn a deaf ear. In return for your cruelty, your handsome face shall match the distortion of your soul. You will remain imprisoned in your palace - the fortress which you erected for yourself - with no human contact, except that of your invisible attendants. Your whole land will be placed under an enchantment, your own people will forget your name, and the beauty of your grand palace will be lost to the eyes of outsiders. You will live in bondage here until the day you learn to love for love's sake alone, if you can find one who is willing to love you!" She disappeared with a violent flash and crash of thunder.

In a fit of sudden panic, I rushed to the nearest mirror to be greeted with a horrifying sight: It was not my own face that stared back at me, but the face of death. It was my face, yet with years of decay; a death's head. I had no nose, my eyes were sunken in to the point that I almost could not be sure if they were there, and the skin that covered my face was taut and pallid, twisted and puckered in a grotesque form. My fingers were long and cold and skeletal. I was in every fashion a living cadaver. I subsequently destroyed every mirror in the palace and fashioned myself a mask to hide my own evil from my eyes.

Two centuries. It took two centuries for a pure and noble girl - a child in nearly every respect - to stumble into my dark and dangerous underworld. Charlotte-Christine; four syllables emblazoned in my tortured memory.

Thus, the story begins.


	2. Once Upon a Time

**Chapter One:  
Once Upon a Time**

There once lived a kind-hearted man who loved his wife and little daughter very much. In the silent hills of Scandinavia, he made an honest living, and every evening when his work was done, he would sit by the fireside with his beloved wife and cherished daughter and delight them with favorite stories from his youth and enchanting melodies on his violin, for he was a gifted musician. Every time he would play, his little daughter's eyes would brighten and she would rest her chin upon his knee to gaze at him in wonder as he expertly guided his bow over the magical strings. She shared his joy for music, and he taught her to read notes long before she learned her letters.

The happy family lived like this for six pleasant years, until tragedy struck and the kind-hearted man's beloved wife died unexpectedly. His dear little daughter was too young to understand, yet seemed to share his loss in her own little way. She would not be separated from her father, so in interest of his much loved daughter - who was now his entire life - he turned to his music to support them both, traveling the countryside with his enchanted violin. He was well loved for his talent and frequently solicited to play at feasts and weddings and other joyous occasions where people like to gather and enjoy well played, joyful melodies. When he would play in the streets, his little daughter would often join in with her singing, which he always encouraged, for her young voice was as pure and clear as a heavenly being's.

As they traveled from town to town, the kind-hearted man would tell his daughter fairytales - enchanted stories - to help pass the long hours. Her favorite tale was the story of Little Lotte, who heard the voice of the Angel of Music when she slept in her little bed. Perhaps that was because they shared the same name and looked very much alike. Indeed, they _were_ alike but for one exception: Charlotte-Christine had yet to hear the greatly coveted voice of the Angel of Music, unlike her fairytale counterpart. You see, the Angel of Music was only heard by those who were meant to hear him - those who had a pure heart and a good soul and who longed to enrich the world with their music. Once the Angel of Music was heard, the hearer was endowed with a supernatural ability to play the kind of music that is only heard in the heavenly realms. Little Charlotte was convinced that her father had heard the Angel of Music, and he promised her that one day, she too would hear his voice. How she longed for that day to come!

Time passed, though the years were considerably kinder to Charlotte than to her father, whose knuckles had swelled and twisted with a degenerative disease from years of over-use. He was little able to produce the same enchanted music from his violin as he was ailing, thus father and daughter fell on hard times. As they wandered through the French countryside - for their musical wanderings had taken them far from their native Scandinavia - an aging and well-endowed professor took pity on them and along with his wife, welcomed the ailing violinist and his pretty young daughter into their home. The days were spent quietly and the evenings were filled with song, for Charlotte's voice grew purer and more heavenly with her age, and her father still retained a hint of his old talent on the violin. They spent many happy months in this way, with the good professor and his wife as their gracious benefactors, until the day when the good professor's age caught up with him and he passed away suddenly. Charlotte and her ailing father left then, not wanting to impose upon the professor's grieving wife. The professor had kind-heartedly bequeathed a portion of his estate to the ailing violinist and his daughter with an angel's voice, and with his provisions, they left to settle in a quiet place of their own in the French countryside. They made a comfortable home for themselves in a quaint cottage on the outskirts of a provincial town, where Charlotte cared endlessly for her ailing father and he did his best to keep up the homestead, though it was impossible without the help of a few strong young men.

"Lotte," her father would often ask her as she doted on him, "are you happy?"

"Yes, Papa," she would reply, "I am always happy as long as I am with you." And nothing could have been more true, for her father was her world. Though she always bore a secret longing to break free from an ordinary life and live like the heroines in her father's fairytales. She longed to live more freely, she longed to sing, she longed to hear the Angel of Music whom her father had promised would one day sing for her.

_ How long_, she would wonder, _how long must I bear life with grace and humble gratitude? How long before I see the fruits of my quiet submission?_ Then she would look to her father, from whom she drew her life and strength, and realize that her care for him was no sacrifice and reproach herself for her complaining, thinking, _I'll never hear the Angel of Music with such selfish thoughts as those!_

The good professor had left them with a comfortable sum of money, therefore Charlotte's father was able to hire a few hard-working boys to help with the upkeep of their home. With the freedom this provided her, Charlotte began to take walks into the surrounding woods to satisfy her longings for escape. They were only short walks at first, and she would only venture just past border of trees that surrounded their little home, but as time passed, she began to venture further and stayed away longer. She did a good deal of thinking on her woodland walks, and sometimes she would sing as well. For as much of the forest that she explored, however, she would not venture into its heart, for she had heard tales from the village that it was enchanted.

One afternoon as she wandered, she came across and old, overgrown pathway, lined on either side with wild rosebushes. Drawn by their scent, she was compelled to follow the forsaken path, driven by an unknown force. She thought she heard music somewhere, like the playing of a distant violin, but she decided that it was only her imagination. Something deep inside of her warned her to turn back, but she ignored it, telling herself that it was a beautiful day and a delightful little path, and the wild roses were so rich and wonderful that it would indeed be shameful to waste it all in turning back. From the angle of the sunlight that filtered through the trees and the sweet and heavy scent of the roses and the thick, lush undergrowth all around, Charlotte thought the path resembled the faery paths which her father had so expertly described in his stories so long ago. She continued on, in an unassuming happiness. She was soon met with an odd sight: despite the brilliant light of mid-day, the wood had darkened considerably and a mist rose up in the path before her. Through the misty shade, Charlotte thought she could see an old stone tower rising above the trees, crumbling from the neglect of time. Like the beacon of a watchtower to a weary traveler who had lost his way, Charlotte was drawn to the stoic spire and advanced towards it, curious and trance-like. She suddenly found herself standing in the courtyard ruins of some ancient castle, shrouded heavily in mist. Her eyes darted around, casting suspicious glances into the unending shadows. All was dark, like the grey dusk of evening after the sun has gone down. She could hear nothing but her own breath. All was silent, all was still; yet still she had the acute sense that she was being watched.

She tried her voice uneasily, offering a wavering "Hello?" to her dark surroundings. She received no immediate reply, but then she heard it - a low tone nearly inaudible at first but growing sweetly and steadily, resting in her ears, then suddenly at her feet. It grew into a gentle, melodious song - sung with a voice and yet without words - and she looked about in vain for the owner of the magnificent voice until she realized that the song was not of human origin. It was distinctly coming from beneath her feet; the ground was singing! She caught her breath, half in horror and half in wonder, her hand flew to her throat, and then she turned and ran.


	3. The Beginning of the Strange Affair

**To my two reviewers:** Thank you so much for your kind encouragement. I'm glad that my story has caught your interest.I did intend for my story to have that "classic fairytale" feel to it; I'm glad that my efforts have shown through. :) As for characterization, I'm striving to stay as true tothe cannon personalities as I can, with the exception of Charlotte-Christine, who's characterization is largely influenced by Susan Kay's Christine, as much as I loathed her. I felt that Kay's more child-like and innocent Christine would fit better in the storyline that the more manipulativeLeroux Christine. 

On with the second chapter!

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**Chapter Two:  
****The Beginning of the Strange Affair**

High up in the tower, a dark figure stood, robed in shadow and wearing a white mask that hid his entire face. From the shadows he gazed out the window, staring intently at a delicate form far below. She had been coming steadily for two weeks, now; she would always sit in the same quiet corner of his garden; sometimes she would speak, and sometimes she would sit quietly and think with a distant, sorrowful look in her eyes. His favorite days, however, were the days that she would sing. Never had he heard a purer voice in all his life. Her voice was untrained and twinged with uncertainty from disuse, yet it had a perfect pitch and clarity that stirred him deep within and filled him with a delight he never thought he could have experienced again. And to share his delight, he made the earth sing for her. He had first lured her there with his siren songs, and it was the same wordless melodies that compelled her to return each afternoon. Soon enough, his prison had become her haven, the place to which she retreated to cleanse and unburden her soul.

He never spoke with her, but he always listened. He listened to her earnest prayers and supplications; she constantly invoked the name of the Angel of Music. She thought it was _his_ voice she heard humming the wordless melodies that lured her back each day, and try as he might, he could not bring himself to shatter her happy illusion. The thought of her angel brought her such joy, and he could not dash her soaring hopes now - poor, unhappy child that she seemed. A child and strangely yet, a lady. More than just one happy illusion rested precariously on those afternoon visits.

It was wrong, he knew - he shouldn't be stringing the poor, delicate soul along in such a way - but to see the look of rapture on her young and pretty face, the way she clasped her hands in delight and caught her breath, the way her eyes would dance; it was a strange, new feeling to him to bring a measure of happiness to another's life. And though his conscience pricked him, he couldn't help but relish in her company, if only from a distance. But oh, to break that barrier, to communicate his distant adoration through words, to make her see the beauty of his sprawling palace which was invisible to her now!

Meanwhile, Charlotte sat in her designated corner of the castle ruins, oblivious to the masked admirer above. She found a strange peace among the twisted ruins - perhaps it was the all-consuming darkness which brought her soul a sense of calm - and an elation at being granted the gift of hearing the voice of her long sought-after Angel. She knew it was her Angel of Music, the one her father had promised would speak to her one day, for who else could have sung the hauntingly enchanting wordless melodies that drew her to the forsaken castle grounds each day? Her Angel caused the earth around her to sing in answer to her long years of supplication and humble endurance. Though he never spoke to her through words, his melodies were enough to assure her that she had done right in Heaven's eyes. That knowledge alone gave her the strength to bear the rough realities of her inconsequential life.

One afternoon, Charlotte approached the ruins with a particularly downcast spirit. She was often saddened by the bleakness of her poor little life and always preoccupied with worry for her dear ailing father, but on this particular day, her thoughts were bordering on despair. For the funds which the good professor had provided were running low due to increasing medical bills for her father's care, and in order to maintain their modest household, many of their meager possessions had to be sold. The hired hands had been dismissed for lack of salary, and Charlotte would once more be bound to her father's side, away from the voice of her Angel. Even now as she sank to the soft, moist ground in her haven-corner, her father was journeying to the village to sell most of the livestock they had acquired, some household wares, and most heartbreaking of all, his treasured violin which had brought such joy to their plain and weary lives. Charlotte wept at the thought of never again hearing the happy folk tunes which always sent her spirit soaring, or the tender, loving melodies which often lulled her to sleep.

"Oh, Angel," she cried, tears streaming unheeded from her sorrowful eyes as she related her sad affair, "what am I to do? Will I still hear you when I'm bound at home? I cannot bear the loneliness; I cannot bear the solitude!" With that, her voice broke and she wept bitterly. "To never hear him play again... Oh, Angel!"

What was he to do? Missions of mercy were not his forté, yet he felt compelled to offer some form of consolation to the child. He had, after all, assumed the role of her angel. Perhaps it was time to break the barrier and dually fulfill his desires and quiet her tears. Ever so softly, he began to sing.

It began as a low hum, barely audible, yet growing in strength and warmth that filled Charlotte's whole being and penetrated into her soul. It was a sound of pure peace that brought light to her dark and dank spirit. Then, suddenly, a voice!

"Hush," he spoke, "dry your tears, for you have found favor with the Angel of Music. You will not be abandoned."

She caught her breath in sheer elation. Her Angel had spoken? Surely this could not be! She had risen to her feet without feeling herself rise, and stared wide-eyed into the veiled heavens above.

"Angel?" she asked tremulously to the sky.

He returned her wide-eyed gaze with a much keener one from behind his mask, feeling a strange arousal at the fact that she was now gazing directly into the tower window in which he stood, though she could not see it.

"Open your eyes, child," he replied in a gentle, yet commanding tone, holding her - unseen - in his gaze.

Slowly, very slowly, the night around her began to fade as pinpricks of sunlight streamed in through the mist. All at once, the over-run ruins were transformed into lush, sprawling palace grounds: where tangled vines and weeds once grew over crumbling walls, lavishly kept gardens of exotic flowers now spread through the magnificent courtyard leading to the grand palace entrance. The sights and smells assaulted her senses, and she felt stunted by the magnificent beauty that now surrounded her. A breathless exclamation of, "Angel!" was all she could manage to vocalize before her very logic was completely overrun.

"Now you see your haven for what it really is," he answered, "and I would give it to you freely if you but follow my instruction." He kept himself well hidden in the shadows now, lest he reveal his façde too soon. He would have to proceed with the utmost caution if he wanted his plan to succeed. He watched her as she nodded dumbly.

"Return to your home," he continued, "and bide your time there for a while. I promise you that before long, you will return to this palace - your haven - again, and then you will hear my voice as often as you like. You will not be abandoned."

Charlotte did not know how to respond. She simply nodded her humble assent and waited dumbly for further instruction, one more chance to hear his captivating voice.

"Go!" he urged, his impatience beginning to flare.

As if in a trance, Charlotte turned and left, continuously glancing over her shoulder to ensure that her palace was not some cruel twist of her imagination.

As he watched her leave, a small smile spread its way across his twisted lips. Her father would be passing by this way on his journey back from the village, and he would be ready for the old man's approach.


	4. A Rose of Blood

**A/N:** Please forgive the delay in updating. I hope the wait was worth it! I think that this is one of my favorite chapters so far. Thanks again to my reviewers! **To Mrs. Butler** (and anyone else who is opposed to a fully-masked Erik): As I've stated before, this work is based off of both Leroux's cannon and Kay's _Phantom_ and _not_ the 2004 movie. In both Leroux and Kay, Erik wears a full mask because his deformity covers his entire face. Erik's not supposed to be pretty. Besides, the full mask will be a plot point a little later on. ;) 

With that said, I hope you all enjoy this latest installment!

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**Chapter Three:  
****A Rose of Blood**

_You will not be abandoned_. Never had Erik spoken truer words. Since the moment he had first observed the delicate flower that had nestled herself just inside the perimeter of his domain, he knew that she would be his. She had to be his; never had he been so captured by pure innocence. And perhaps her innocence would be the winning antidote for the enchantment in which he was bound.

Too many years had passed since that fateful night; he had stopped keeping track of the calendar's progression long ago. He harbored a deep-rooted bitterness towards the enchantress that had imprisoned him here, and he doubted her word that her spell could be broken by love. Still, he waited; keeping a watchful eye out for fair young maidens who may break the spell gave him some deviation from his solitude. He thought it a perfectly ironic twist that his face should resemble the living dead; as long as the enchantment lasted, he was immortal, and he thought it quite fitting that the face of one who had lived for centuries should look as though it had been decaying from his birth.

He sat in his chambers, mulling over his newly formed plan. It had been just over four days since his belle's last visit (he called her his belle, for he did not know her name), the day her father had left for the village. He calculated a time line in his mind: with a day and a half of travel each way and perhaps a five-day stay in town, which would give him ample time to sell off his goods, he could expect the old man's approach within the next four days. He would greet him with the _greatest_ civility, complement his daughter's striking beauty, and give the old man a month's time to relinquish his daughter. If he was resistant, an ultimatum would be in order: his daughter or his life, for with Erik, it was indeed a life or death matter. The dear child who was so enraptured by his voice could learn to love him, he was certain.

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It had been four days since her father had left for town; four days since she had seen her haven transformed; four days since her Angel of Music had spoken to her. Her heart still trembled with joy at the memory of his voice, how he had so tenderly addressed her. Sometimes she still wondered if it had been nothing but a dream. She had remembered each word he had spoken to her, but she held most dearly to his promise that he would not abandon her. _You will not be abandoned_. _You have found favor with the Angel of Music_. Even now, she heard him singing inside her head that song of perfect peace and reassurance.

She had worked especially diligently at keeping up the household in her father's absence, hoping only to continue to please her Angel. Her father had left her with a kiss on the forehead and a promise to return with enough revenue for them to live more comfortably. He had asked her if there was any trinket she desired that he may be able to spare a few pence for in return for her diligent care over the past months. She had answered him with a dreamy sigh, thinking of the wild roses in which she reveled each afternoon on her visits to her Angel. What wouldn't she give to have a few rose seeds to plant around the house to remind her of the happy afternoons spent at her ruins and to keep her Angel nearer to her memory? She had asked for rose seeds - not many; just enough to plant a cheery little garden to which she could tend and sometimes sit and dream in. She knew that no other earthly rose could compare to the wild rose bushes which lined the path to her Angel's paradise, but she desired any small comfort which she could find. Her father had promised her the seeds and left her alone for a fortnight with her memories and dreams.

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Erik was growing impatient. Six more days had passed with no sign of his belle's father. He paced around his chambers in frustration, stopping at times to sit at his grand organ - which took up one whole wall of his bedroom suite - and work his fingers in a frenzy over the keys. He was composing for her; he had decided to begin some preliminary work on their wedding mass, for one never knew what the future might hold. He had begun to pace the floor again when his agitated thoughts were interrupted by a voice from the doorway.

"Erik, I hate to see you in such a state."

He turned his head to the doorway to see the spectral shade of his loyal advisor and only friend.

"You have not been in such an anxious state since the day--"

Erik whirled violently around in a sudden fury, looming ominously over his all but invisible servant. "I thought I warned you never to speak of that day!" he sneered. He composed himself with some effort, then continued in an unaffected tone, "What is it you want, my dear Daroga?"

"Only to find what troubles you so," he replied. "It's the girl, isn't it?" he added in a wary tone.

Erik snarled at him from his organ where he now sat brooding. "What business is it of yours?" he snapped. "I swear, Daroga, if it weren't for your insufferable loyalty, I would have thrown you out on your hide long ago. You had damn well better be grateful that I had the gracious courtesy to save your Persian skin when I did!"

Nadir did not have to be reminded of Erik's strange act of mercy so many years ago. The tyrant would forever hold him in his debt, he knew, but that still did not keep him from effectively playing his role of royal advisor. If anyone was in need of a conscience and a guide, it was Erik, and Nadir was happy to play that role as effectively as possible. Someone needed to keep him in touch with his last shreds of sanity and humanity, the poor fellow; at the time of the enchantment, most of his master's servants had fled for fear of being enchanted themselves. The few who stayed were cursed to invisibility. It was a small price to pay, however, to act as a friend to his deserted master.

"You think she is the one, then?" he pressed on, despite Erik's foul mood and ominous non-verbal warnings.

Erik cast him a despairing glance. "Is she not female and breathing, Daroga?"

"Yes, she is," he quietly replied.

"Then yes, I _do _think that she may be 'the one.' Now, leave me. When I say that I do not wish to be disturbed, I mean precisely that." With that, Erik resumed his composition with no further regard for his damnable advisor or anything further he might wish to say.

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The storm in which the old man was caught increased in its intensity. His horse had lost its way long ago, and the black, angry clouds which obscured the midnight sky did nothing to help their cause. Still he prodded the humble steed on, figuring that _some _progress was better than wasting away in the treacherous night. He was obviously ill as he sat hunched in his saddle, nearly gnarled hands gripping the reigns, attacked by a hacking fit of uncontrollable coughing. He knew he could not last much longer in such conditions, and he hung his head in defeat at the realization that he had failed his only daughter, the cherished pride of his life. He had not been able to afford her desired rose seeds in town, and now he would die out here alone, leaving her abandoned and without a half-pence to her name.

But wait, what was that rising above the trees? His aging eyes must have deceived him. No, there it was again: a flash of lightning had illuminated a black tower standing stark against the sky. Hope fluttered within him once again; if he could reach the tower, perhaps he could entreat whoever lived there to allow him to pass the night under its shelter. He nudged his horse forward with a new determination.

It seemed to take little time for him to reach the rusting iron gates which enclosed the tower, which he now could see was annexed to a much grander structure. He dismounted his horse with sudden uncertainty; something deep within him urged him to turn back, but he ignored it, rationalizing that taking shelter from the deadly storm was the wiser choice. Besides, he was quite lost, and perhaps whoever lived here would be able direct him to his right path in the morning.

A strange thing happened as he eased open the creaking gate and stepped inside. The rain around him suddenly ceased, the howling wind reduced to a gently whispering breeze. A fog rose up in front of him, obscuring his view of the courtyard in which he stood, but a sliver of light from the full moon cut through the clouds and mist, illuminating a single red rose which grew at his feet. Never had he seen a rose that was so deep a red; its heart was scarlet, while its petals were the deep crimson of blood. Immediately, he stooped to pluck it; if he could not bring his Little Lotte her rose seeds, at least he could bring her a rose.

Suddenly, a shadow fell upon him before he could rise. Glancing up, he saw the black silhouette of a man outlined against the fog, a terrifying shadow emanating malice. From beneath the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat, the old man thought he saw the hint of a white mask which covered the shade's entire face.

"Welcome, Monsieur," a black, velvet voice said. "You have been expected for some time, now."


	5. His Only Treasure

**A/N**: No,I haven't given up on this story. Please forgive the gap of time between updates; real life has begun to get in the way of my writing. I am certainly going to continue this story, though my updates may not be as frequent. Thanks again to my reviewers!

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**Chapter Four:  
His Only Treasure**

Charlotte awoke in a cold sweat, trembling from head to foot. She had just awoken from the most terrifying nightmare, and now she sat up near her headboard, knees drawn up to her chin, trying to shake away its last remnants from her waking memory. She shuddered as the images flashed once again through her over-active mind.

_She was standing alone on the shaded grounds of her ruins, an eerie breeze whispering around her in the otherwise still, moonless night. She heard it then, the voice of her Angel, though she was no longer filled with the same rapture at its sound. Something was different, something was wrong about his voice. As she peered through the gathering mist, she thought she saw a shadow - the shadow of a man. It was advancing towards her, and as it approached, she realized that it _was _a man, shrouded in a black cloak, his face hidden within the shadowed depths of his hood. He spoke to her, but the sound was one that she did not expect; he had her Angel's voice. _

_"Angel?" she inquired, her voice trembling with fear._

_"Yes," he replied, "I am your Angel. Come to me." As he extended his hand, his hood fell away, revealing a white, sinister mask over his face._

_Charlotte screamed as a bolt of lightning ripped through the sky, briefly illuminating the courtyard ruins and at her feet, the body of her dead father, clutching a blood red rose in his hand._

She shivered again, a frightened tear trailing down her cheek. This was not the first nightmare of this sort that she had had. Many times throughout her childhood, she had dreamt of a masked man who endlessly pursued her. Sometimes she would run away, but never fast enough - she would feel his icy hand grip her shoulder just before she could awake. When she would turn around, she would find not the masked man standing there, but a skeleton in his place. Other times, she would try to escape, only to find him blocking every exit to which she ran, trapping her in his dark prison.

Unable to sleep, she slid out of bed, lighting the candle on her night table to help chase away the shadows. She wrapped her heavy woolen shawl around her shoulders to drive the chill from her bones and curled in a chair by the window, gazing into the moonless sky. Never had she dreamed her father's death before. She closed her eyes and prayed that her dream was not an omen.

She looked out again, searching the black and empty sky - for what, she wasn't sure. "Papa," she whispered through the tears that stung her eyes, "please be safe."

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_You have been expected_.

The words turned over in the old man's mind as he sat in the great drawing room, contemplating this turn of events. He had no explanation for the fear that tugged at the back of his mind or the sense of premonition that hung heavily in the air around him. His mysterious masked host had temporarily deserted him here in this massive drawing room after taking his wet clothes from him and providing him with a warm, dry robe instead.

He looked about the room helplessly, stunted in the midst of such opulence. The floor was carpeted with a plush, rich, red rug with intricate weavings around its perimeter. The windows were draped with thick brocade curtains - black with golden weaving - and massive red-and-gold tassels used as tie-backs. The chairs and end tables were crafted from various dark, rare and expensive woods, as was the plush velvet sofa which took up much of the wall to his right. But the main feature which commanded his attention was the fireplace which was right before him. Made of the finest ebony marble, the mantle stretched the entire height of the wall and spanned more than half its length. It was intricately carved with fantastic scenes, and as he moved forward for a closer inspection, he gave an involuntary shudder, for carved into that black marble was a much too realistic depiction of the lost souls in the mythological Underworld. They burned, they writhed, faces twisted in inhuman agony over and around the fire which blazed in the fireplace. He stared at the hellish mantlepiece in horrified wonder, filled with awe and repulsion by turns, yet he found that he could not look away.

It was in this captivated state that his masked host found him when he returned. "It's a rather remarkable work of art, is it not?"

He started at the sound of his mysterious host's voice. "I am not sure that 'remarkable' is the word I would choose; it revolts me, yet I cannot look away for its expert craftsmanship."

"Which is precisely what makes it remarkable," his host replied from behind the mask. For the first time, the old man had a decent look at his host; though the lighting in the room was dim, it afforded him a better look than the moonlight alone. He was dressed as any ordinary man of status, carefully groomed, pinned and tucked in all of the appropriate places, yet his mask seemed to provide him with a sinister power, his golden eyes shining through its holes like two burning flames. Those burning eyes and his lips and chin were all that the mask revealed - the rest was hidden away beneath the white porcelain with the classical nose and the arched golden eyebrows. He exuded a regal air, even as he leaned casually against the door frame, arms folded over his chest. He seemed in every way a man to be highly respected - and feared.

"I'm sure you are wondering why you are here," his host continued, eyeing him carefully. "Let us sit and talk; there is a rather important matter which I wish discuss with you." He motioned towards two over-stuffed chairs that stood before the fireplace which the old man was certain had not been there just a moment before. He sat despite his bafflement and his uneasiness increased.

"I can see you are uneasy," his host addressed him. "Perhaps an introduction will help to put your mind at ease. I am Erik, and I own this castle and all its grounds. Everything you see is mine. I own it all; you might even say that I am its _ruler_." He chuckled at his own private joke. "I have lived here alone for countless years and I now seek release from my solitude. But enough about me for now; tell me something about yourself." He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers, and the old man gasped at the sight; his hands looked like a skeleton's!

He regained his composure with a firm resolve. "I only tell my name to honest men who are not afraid to show their faces to a stranger," he replied. "If you are an honest man and are hiding no secrets, then show me your face; then I shall speak of myself!"

Erik rose indignantly from his chair. "No living man has ever seen Erik's face, and no living man ever shall, without paying a dear, dear price!" he raged. The old man rose as well, more certain now than ever that he was in the company of a mad man and thinking only of escaping to return to his dear Little Lotte.

"Then I shall not stay here!" he exclaimed, taking a few steps back toward the doorway. "If you will kindly direct me to my own clothes, I shall put them on and be out and leave the way I came; it will be morning soon, and then I shall be able to find the road that I lost."

"I cannot let you leave!" Erik exclaimed, a sudden panic rising in his chest.

"And I cannot stay! Sir, if you please!" Erik blocked his path, not allowing him to pass. The old man persisted, and seeing that his captor would not relent, he did the only thing he could think of doing to gain him access to the doorway and his freedom - he reached for the mask. He only meant it as a distraction, to catch him off guard so he could dash for the doorway and the freedom of the perilous outdoors. But his captor seemed to take his act in a much different way.

He let out an almost superhuman cry of rage as the mask fell to the floor. "So this was your plan? You wanted to see?" he yelled, grinding his teeth. "You wanted to see the face of the deathly beast that haunts the woods? Well, then look! Look upon my deathly face!" He loomed over the old man who had fallen to the floor at his feet when Erik had turned on him, his cadaverous face glowing a hideous yellow in the firelight and his golden eyes gleaming maliciously. "I am quite a sight, am I not?" he hissed in an angry whisper, bending down so that his face was level with the old man's. The old man trembled and hid his face at the sight. "Had you not seen my face, I would have let you go free. But now that you know, now that you have seen, you shall never leave my castle alive!"

"Please, sir!" the old man begged, hiding his face and his tears of terror. "I meant no harm, I only - my daughter! My daughter, sir, she needs me!"

Erik checked himself suddenly; he was now the one in power. Perhaps he could turn the situation in his favor after all. "Your daughter," he echoed thoughtfully, staring pensively into the fire.

The old man looked at him suddenly, a new desperation in his eyes as he read into his captor's meaning. He could hardly vocalize his new fear.

Erik turned again to face his prey. "I would be willing to spare your life," he said, a dark note in his voice, "if you would be willing to make a trade."

"No, no!" he whimpered in a hoarse whisper. Desperation claimed him at the thought of the imminent loss of his beloved Little Lotte, the only treasure in the world that he had left.

"Come, monsieur," Erik pressed, "her life for yours. I promise that no harm shall come to her. In fact, she knows me already. Or do you not trust the word of an inhuman monster such as myself?" He spoke his last words with a searing venom.

A tense moment passed in silence as the old man considered his death-faced captor. The village rumors he had heard were true; the forest was haunted by a specter who looked like Death, and who was to say that the other nasty tales of his feasting on human flesh were not true as well? Yet he had promised no harm and had left him with no choice...

"Will you at least give me time to say goodbye?" he inquired brokenly.

Erik smiled a devious smile. "I shall give you one month to make your decision. When the month has passed, I shall expect to see one of you at my door again - either you or her, but preferably her." His demeanor changed then as he rose and replaced his mask, offering his hand to help the old man from the floor. "You shall stay the night here as it is a dangerous night outside, and in the morning after you have eaten, I shall point you in the direction of the proper road home." With that, he turned and left the old man alone in the massive room once more. Upon his leaving, the old man fell to the floor once again, weeping for his betrayal of his treasured daughter.

* * *

"I think you've gone too far."

"No one asked you opinion, Daroga," Erik replied moodily as he sat in his chair by the fire, smoking a pipe. He had finally sent the old man away after making his demands very clear. There was no doubt he would comply.

Disregarding his master's temper as usual, Nadir pressed on. "You've taken this infatuation far enough," he admonished. "I desire freedom from this curse as much as you, but this is _not _the way it should be done."

Erik took another puff. "Then tell me how," he replied coolly.

Nadir paused. Though he had imagined the breaking of the enchantment millions of times over, he had never fully considered the mechanics of how it was to take place. Love was the necessary ingredient, obviously. "Love for love's sake"; that's what the enchantress had said. But never had he considered how Erik was to learn to love, or how another individual was to learn to love _him_.

"Tell me how, Daroga," Erik repeated with an edge in his voice.

"Well," Nadir began, stopping to choose his words carefully, "I-"

"You have no idea, do you?" Erik cut him short as he rose from the armchair to face his advisor. "You have no idea how any living, rational being could find a way to love a cold, a hideous, a rotting, shriveled, decaying, _living_ human corpse!" he seethed. "Well neither do I, dear Daroga, neither do I!" He stood fully erect, allowing his presence to intimidate the shade of a man before him, eyes flashing behind the mask. Then, his shoulders drooped with that familiar feeling of despair. "How else am I supposed to go about it?" he finally finished in a defeated tone.

"I do not know the right way," Nadir conceded, "but I do know that this cannot be it." With that, he turned to leave, not waiting to be dismissed. "Oh, and one more thing," he added, turning back once more, "please, do not crush the spirit of this poor girl. Something tells me that her young eyes have already seen enough." With that, he left Erik alone to brood.


End file.
